Of Devils and Black Sheep
by lembaslover
Summary: Actually, sir... I don't know what I would do were I ever to meet a pirate. I should be quite frightened, I expect.


Little Rebecca Williamson trotted hurriedly down the streets of Port Royal, a prisoner in shoes too small and a dress just a little too long. In her arms bounced a woven wicker basket full of her mother's coveted rolls and buns. Mrs. Williamson owned the local bakery, and every day it was Rebecca's duty to make her rounds through the city and deliver various breads to home-ridden customers.

She often didn't complain; after all, it was a chance to get out of the hot, sticky kitchens and she got to pass the docks and stare for a few sweet moments at the mighty white-sailed ships therein. This particular morning the lass planned to go out on a limb and actually stop on her daily run. Sure, Mumma would notice her tardiness and she'd get a lecture about the ill effects of too much sunlight and salty air, but it was entirely worth it to try and estimate how high rose the tallest mast.

"... No thank you, Ma'am, I'd best be going before the rest of these get cold," Rebecca said while simultaneously forcing a polite grin, quickly backing out of a sunny doorway. Mrs. St. Clair... the chattiest woman south of Jamestown. Mother certainly had some strange customers.

Grateful for a successful escape, she increased her pace as she reached the fair stretch of road between St. Clair's and Master Watkins' place, from which she could see plainly the majestic ships and hear the busy shouts of the lucky people who got to spend the entire day there.

She stopped and placed the basket on the ground, taking it all in with her eyes. A light wind came about, bringing about the familiar yet teasing aroma of salt and faraway lands, and Rebecca's irritatingly straight hair played and floated with the breeze. She knew she couldn't tarry long, but it would be a few minutes of heaven.

According to St. Clair, when the native savages of the colonies had first seen the ships from England come peeking over the horizon, they had thought them giant birds. Standing on the ridge overlooking the docks, Rebecca agreed. The ships all looked so peaceful, wings folded and resting serenely in the blue-green waters of the Caribbean Sea. Of course, the birds themselves were the only thing peaceful about the harbor - men sweating in the sun rushed about bearing bundles and barrels and shouted at each other until the voices melted together in a jagged rhythm of clipped noise. A true sailor could stare out to sea forever and never bore of the patterns of waves converging and diverging; a true citizen of Port Royal could stare out at the docks forever and never bore of the patterns of the endless tasks never fully completed. It was in the blood.

"It's a good little town, eh?"

Rebecca's head snapped in the direction of the voice, and saw to her utter surprise and faint horror a tall, bearded man gazing out to sea - though she could tell his attention was focused on her. There were beads in his long, wind-whipped, dark hair, and there was the smell of the sea (and was that... alcohol?) on him. From what he had said, it was apparent that he wasn't from around here. A fisherman, perhaps? He looked kindly enough, despite the slight mischievi--

"Mm... yes, good town."

Of course, comparing Port Royal to a 'little town' was like comparing a Spanish galleon to a weather-beaten rowboat. Rebecca smiled at the analogy. "Yes," she said, "I would say it is."

"Good port."

"Yes, sir."

"Ever been out o' Port Royal, darlin'?"

Rebecca hesitated. "No, sir."

"How do you know, then, I wonder?" The fisherman looked down at her and smiled cleverly; there was a flash of gold in the early afternoon sun.

She lowered her head and dropped her eyes to her feet to conceal the fact that she was blushing. "I... I don't, sir. I'm sorry."

The fisherman rocked back on his heels, and Rebecca worried that she was offending him in some way. It perplexed her greatly; her parents always told her to be at her most respectful around strangers - especially the strange ones, and certainly this stranger was - and yet still she offended him. She tried to lift the mood. "I should very much like to, of course."

"Of course," he echoed, and glanced down with a playfully critical eye and a quirked brow. "I don't think you're fit for it."

Rebecca feigned indignation. "I beg your pardon!" she said, torn between her most serious Serious Face and giggling.

"It's rarely given. You're far too skinny, and just look at your hands; haven't seen a hard day's work since birth, I expect."

She held out her hands and examined the smooth skin with a frustrated pout. "I could sail," she muttered dejectedly.

The man merely grinned.

"You doubt me! I _could_ sail. I could be a _pirate_, even!"

"Oh-ho! A pirate now, eh?"

"Yes." Rebecca crossed her arms and glared out at the horizon, striking a pose meant to be rebellious and daring.

"You'll need a good pirate's name. No more 'Miss' for you, girly."

"I shall be..." She considered it. "'Becca the Blackheart. Terror of the Seas!"

The fisherman laughed briefly, and Rebecca thought for a moment she could hear that underlying, translucent, curious hint of mischief hidden somewhere in the sound. But then she remembered her manners, and added, "You may call me Miss Williamson, then, since I am not _really_ a pirate."

"... Smith," he said, then smiled that clever grin again. "I rather prefer 'Becca the Blackheart, if it's all the same. She sounds a lady-pirate to strike terror into the hearts of all men, even the most infamous ghost-pirate captains of the uncharted waters."

Rebecca giggled again, and her eyes widened a little as she imagined it. "Actually, sir... I don't know what I _would_ do were I ever to meet a pirate. I should be quite frightened, I expect."

"Indeed you should."

Each fell into a silence, watching the crystal blue horizon fluctuate with the breeze and the giant birds pick at their feathers in preparation for flight. Rebecca shook her head, smiling. "Such games," she muttered to herself. "Me, meet a pirate!"

"Can you keep a secret?" the fisherman asked suddenly, turning and boring his fathomless dark eyes into hers, that same mischief twitching at his mustache.

"Y-yes..."

The whisper tickled her ear: "_You just have._"


End file.
